On the farm there grows a weed called the tumble-weed. When
October comes, the wind breaks the stalk. As round as a
dandelion puff-ball, the tumble-weed is as large as a bushel
basket. When the wind blows from the north the tumble-weeds
start across the field, toward the fence-corners. That evening,
when the wind changes, the tumble-weed starts rolling across
the meadow toward the same fence from which it started in the
morning. With the new day, the tumble-weed takes up fresh
journeys. At night the wind rises, and tho the farmer and his
flocks sleep, not the tumble-weeds. They are still traveling.
We all are familiar, alas, with the career of Mr. Tumble
Weed, the false radical, tumbling into every public meeting,
Sunday-afternoon-gathering reform club. The moment the meeting
opens he unrolls his fad and reform, and away he goes--now
toward this extreme, now toward that, driven every whither by
the new wind, issuing from the puffed-out cheek of any new
faddist in reform. (Text.)--N. D. HILLIS.
(2643)
=Reforms not Sudden=--See IMPATIENCE OF REFORMERS.